A little over a week ago I was back at the HR Giger Museum in Greyerz for an interview. Yes, it's true, it's remote. It's a good two-and-a-half hours from Zürich. But it's worth it, the backdrop is fantastic, the Moléson thrones impressively over the whole scene. And if you know that Hansruedi Giger already wanted to be a lord of the manor as a small boy, then it makes sense he set up his museum there in the Château St. Germain.

Childhood drawings, 1949

Whenever I'm in Greyerz, I'm accompanied by a conspiracy of ravens. They must have been nesting there for generations already. You cannot fail to see or hear these creatures, ones that are said by specialists to be among the most intelligent of all animals. Last May, when I attended Hansruedi's burial in Greyerz, they seemed to me louder than ever. It was as if they were personally taking leave of the lord of their manor. They circled around the heads of the grieving and croaked to beat the band. No sooner was the coffin in the earth than an incredibly powerful clap of thunder assailed the mournful peace that lay over the cemetery and it began to pour with rain. The ravens seemed satisfied and became silent. I know this sounds like a bad film script. But there are events that you wouldn't dare invent. This is one of them.

I've recently been repeatedly asked whether we changed our dramaturgical concept for the film after Hansruedi's death. No, we didn't. But there is at least one scene that we didn't actually want to use but did finally include in the film. Namely the scene where Carmen Giger, the wife of Hansruedi, explains why there's a raven keeping guard over the door leading to Hansruedi's den. Since then, ravens are becoming my favourite animals.